Knitting Haggis

Lisa Stewart

Description

Peggy Drumm dreams of winning the lottery and escaping her ordinary life but when she scoops the jackpot, she finds the answer isn't at the bottom of the champagne bucket list after all.

Informations

• Publié par: Help for Writers
• Date de parution: 13 octobre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781910823187
• Langue: English

Extrait

Knitting Haggis


Lisa Stewart


For John and Michael




Acknowledgements
Thank you to Catherine Dunn and Nikki Halliwell from Help for Writers Ltd. Book cover design by Patrick Knowles Design.
Thank you to my mum and dad (Anne and Joe Patrizio).
‘Right, Brian; that’s your breakfast ready!’ Peggy called as she filled her mug with hot water and stabbed impatiently at the floating teabag. Slurping noisily, she nudged the fridge door closed with one foot. She set her mug on the table so that she could rescue her favourite cereal bowl from the cupboard. ‘You’d better eat something now. You know you won’t get anything ‘til we get back from work.’
Brian contemplated her words briefly, then let his gaze drift back to the television screen, where an energetic weather girl with a toothy grin was waving her arms dramatically over the whole of the Western Isles.
‘And I don’t want to be late for work today. Think Mr Topper might decide today’s the day for my annual review – not that I’ve had one for three years.’ She glanced at him in frustration. ‘By the way, you do know you have something on your nose?’ Brian swatted absently at his face.
Peggy forged her way through her lumpy porridge, brushing her hair and buttoning her cardigan simultaneously. ‘What’s she getting so excited about? It’s always blowing a blooming hurricane up there.’ She rescued the knitting from her chair and shoved it into her knapsack. ‘Please get a move on, Brian. I’m nearly finished. Just about to do my teeth, then we should get going.’
Brian scratched himself thoughtfully and wandered towards the corner of the room, where he squatted in his tray before flicking the gravel lazily behind him. Peggy scooped him up and placed him in his carrier, closing the door carefully.
‘Right. Let’s go.’ She stepped out of the flat, pulling the door firmly behind her and putting the carrier down so that she could fasten her coat and throw her bag over her head. ‘Aye, there’s a bus out there with our name on it, and it’s not going to catch itself!’ She marched purposefully towards the bus stop.

Peggy’s view of the world started at the edge of WHSmith and took in the flickering orange timetable display, a couple of front end buffers and, if she strained her neck, the entrance to Boots. Her only way of getting an inkling of the weather outside was to observe the swarming bodies that zipped past in a variety of outdoor wear ranging from full-body waterproof armour to short shorts with crocs – and everything in between: full Highland dress, kaftans, hoodies, Pink Panther onesies. Peggy’s singularly effective system for assessing the weather was to note whether said outdoor wear was wet or not wet. Or, occasionally, wet and white.
She could determine the strength of the wind by the aromas blown in her direction: a calm day buoyed the air with a pleasant mix of croissants and freshly brewed coffee from the nearby snack kiosk. A strong northerly – which happened more often than she cared for – dragged in diesel fumes from the trains merged with the industrial disinfectant which swilled around the public toilets.
Her world was framed by the scurrying passengers checking arrival or departure details before rushing off to the left and then the right a few moments later. The platform information constantly changed as trains came and went (or didn’t). Suits and scruffs alike dashed into WHSmith laden with briefcases, pull-alongs or rucksacks and emerged balancing water bottles, packets of sweets, daily newspapers and glossy magazines gripped in hands, under arms or between teeth. They would barely make it as far as the ticket barrier before scattering their bounty under the stampede of the disembarking herd. The second half of the performance included a frantic search for the vital ticket, which was inevitably stored deep within an inside pocket or in the last zippered pouch of a fifteen-zip rucksack. The revelation of the elusive ticket was often greeted by a round of applause, bowing or the throwing of roses onto the stage.
Peggy eased herself into her morning ritual, warming her hands on her inherited ‘I luv London’ mug that someone had abandoned on a bench. The owner hadn’t felt that much affection for the capital, obviously. She tuned out of Brenda’s insistent request over the PA system for all passengers for the cross-country train for Penzance to make their way to platform nineteen now and for the person who had left their toddler outside the Ladies to report to the travel centre and ask for Sheila. She waited for Kenny to appear.
On cue, Kenny’s mop of dirty yellow hair bobbed in from the left. ‘Morning, Two Ms! How you diddling?’
‘Not bad, Kenny. Could be worse.’
‘Really? How so?’
‘Well, I might have to work for a living!’ She chortled at her own joke. ‘So, what have you got for me this morning?’
‘Thought you’d never ask. The usual – couple of umbrellas, four phones, a denim jacket, soft toy, what looks like a shopping bag of food and this black wooden box that’s locked so I couldn’t be nosy and have a shifty.’
‘Pass them here then.’
Kenny manoeuvred his trolley while she opened the bottom half of her stable door so that he could wheel it in. He started unloading things onto the desk. The last item, the black box, he lifted with both hands and dropped heavily next to the others. ‘See – it’s locked. I reckon someone nicked it off a passenger but when he couldn’t get it open he chucked it.’
‘What do you think it is?’
‘Dunno.’
‘You don’t think it’s a …?’
‘A what?’
‘A – you know?’
‘No I don’t know, as it’s locked ,’ Kenny said slowly and deliberately.
‘I can see that, Sherlock. I meant – what if it’s a bomb?’
‘Don’t be mental. It was found abandoned down one of the sidings. If there was a great plan to blow up the station, do you really think they’d opt for chucking it over line four? The most damage they’d do would be to give a couple of dafties a night to remember.’
‘Well, if you’re sure? Mr Topper says –’
‘Mr Tosser, more like!’
‘– says we need to do a risk assessment for any suspicious object or package.’
‘The only thing suspicious in this lot is that bag of shopping, which I think has some old lady’s fish, because it’s starting to stink.’
‘Look, I don’t want Mr Topper marching in here with the bomb squad any more than you do. Last time they removed a suspicious parcel they ended up doing a controlled explosion of someone’s Stornaway black pudding. They were none too pleased. Neither were the soldiers who were trooping through it for weeks. Apparently, the servicemen looking out the barrack windows thought they were witnessing an eclipse!’
Peggy hauled out the massive leather-bound ledger and opened it to the latest page. She meticulously logged the date, place of discovery, a brief description of each item and coded the storage area. Lastly, she came to the black wooden box and turned it carefully in her hands: at some point it had been painted black and varnished, but the varnish had aged and cracked like a fragile skin.
Tipping the box, she felt a slight movement, as though something heavy inside had shifted marginally. The brass lock on the front was scratched and worn. She ran her fingers over the lid, where an ornate engraving in lighter wood read ‘ Nous avons été bénis avec la presence de la grandeur ’. She gently raised the box so that she could assess the bottom, where she found ‘ Fabriqué en France’ marked in the wood. There was no clue as to what was being protected inside.
‘Well, Brian, what do you think? It’s quite heavy – gold? A royal crown? Jewellery?’ Brian surveyed her with half-shut eyes and licked his paw thoughtfully. ‘You’re spot on – I’ll put it in my special place.’ She patted his head. ‘Right. Where’s my biscuit tin?’
She had turned to put the kettle on when there was a series of loud, insistent raps on the doorframe, followed by a shout of ‘Oy! You!’ Ambling over to the half-door, she reviewed the shaven-headed, acne-besieged youth, who looked like he was running on the spot, and stared pointedly at the sign, which read: ‘Please ring for attention.’
‘Bell not working?’ she asked innocently.
‘What?’ He glowered. ‘Look, I’m in a hurry, missus. I left my football scarf on the train on Saturday. Can I get it back? My ma gave it me.’
‘How sweet. Mothers can be so thoughtful.’
‘Aye, whatever. My train’s going in a minute. I need my scarf or she’ll kill me.’
‘Really? That’s rather an excessive use of force for what most would consider to be a minor lapse of attention.’
‘You’ve lost me.’ He shook his head in annoyance.
‘Okay.’ She smiled with thin lips. ‘A scarf, you say?’
‘Aye, a Celtic football scarf. And get a bloody move on, will you?’
Peggy sauntered in and out of the rows of metal shelving, tapping each full box as she passed. After a few minutes she returned with a scarf in her hand. She could hear the lad tutting in frustration before she even got to the door.
‘You moronic cow! That’s a bloody Rangers scarf! I said Celtic – are you deaf or just stupid?’
‘Oops – my mistake! Now, what colour is Celtic again?’
‘Och, forget it – I’ll miss my train! I’ll come back later,’ he threatened.
‘Whatever suits you. Our aim is to please.’ She winked at Brian and reached for the Jammie Dodgers.

On the way home, Peggy stayed on the bus for an extra three stops and got off in front of a red brick housing complex. She slipped her key into the front door and headed right.
‘Have you come to pick me up?’ called a reedy voice from a nearby chair.
‘No, Mrs Baxter, I haven’t,’ replied Peggy.
‘Well, who’s coming to pick me up?’
‘I don’t know.’
Peggy tried to keep walking but was halted again with, ‘But I’m starving . When will someone pick me up? I’ve been waiting for hours.’
‘You’ve been waiting for two years,’ muttered Peggy under her breath.
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing! I’m sure someone will be along soon.’
‘But I haven’t had lunch yet.’
‘I’m sure you must have.’
‘But I haven’t!’ she shouted